Gomez
by presser-kun
Summary: Self image lost, and love with it . . . for Duo. Love that will not give up . . . for Heero. Immovable object, irresistible force.
1. Chapter 1

_This fic is dedicated to my beloved, my boyfriend, lover, and partner-in-life, Hiraoka Tatsuo._

Gomez

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1x2

Drama, angst

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Spoilers: None, I think. This is largely an AU fic, though the war, its end, and Duo's background are referenced a bit.

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R- to X-rated

Graphic sex, violence, some BDSM

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/thoughts/\emphasis\alternate voice

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I do not make any money from writing Gundam Wing fanfiction.

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Feedback is always welcome, especially constructive criticism. Don't hold back; I enjoy learning how to improve.

Archived at www.gundam-wing-diaries./gw/Presser/gwPresser.htm

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Chapter 1

DECEMBER 12, A.C. 199

He's sleeping now, curled on the couch, a hand-knitted afghan that Lena made for our anniversary present. The deep blues and purples of the fabric are just the color of his eyes and mine, and the touch of it -- I don't know where Lena gets the yarn she uses, probably from some rare yak -- it's as smooth, as silky as his skin on mine when we make love.

Love.Do we love each other now? Hard to say, after all that's happened.I study his face, watch shadows from the fireplace play across his features: high cheekbones, small chin (though not weak), smooth, tanned skin, unlined, unwrinkled, with chestnut-auburn hair cascading all around. His eyes are closed, of course, but they are what make him come alive. In them are the potentials of mirth and mischief, sharp sarcasm and surprising tenderness, and, occasionally, a philosophy of life that is simultaneously freewheeling and practical. But those things have been absent from his eyes for too long now, replaced by dullness, and a numbness that I cannot penetrate.

He shifts in his sleep, reaching up with one hand to scratch his shoulder through the threadbare cotton tee shirt he always sleeps in. Too long it's been since he was here to wear it.When the itch is satisfied, his long fingers wander, find the braid of his hair that he's so proud of, and pull it up under his chin. He smacks his lips and sighs, returning to a deeper sleep.

What is in his head? His heart?

What is left in mine?

- - -

JULY 4, A.C. 198

The door to our apartment burst open with a bang, not because the door swung back and hit the wall, but because it was Duo Maxwell, my partner, who was in it. Duo never entered a room quietly, unless stealth was his objective, and stealth had not been his objective since the last day of the war. His bright smile and mischievous eyes indicated that something was up.

"We're eating steak tonight, lover boy!"

I looked up from my studies at the small kitchenette table in the corner of the living room and raised one eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Yeah! I found a special at Cavuto's -- a really nice cut, and if I treat it right, it's gonna melt like butter in your mouth." He held up a plastic sack with the distinctive CG of the Cavuto's Groceries logo on it. A small package, wrapped in white butcher's paper, weighed it down.

I smiled, just a little. Duo had a way of making me do that, even when I was concentrating on prepping for the last engineering exam I would ever take.

"And where did you find the money? I thought we were --"

Duo's smile faltered; he broke eye contact with me.

"Oh, um, I found a twenty in the inner pocket of my parka when I was going through the closet last night."

I raised my other eyebrow.

"And why were you going through the closet this time?"

Duo blushed, then looked back at me with a fresh, full-on smile.

"I think there's still one bottle left of that Australian beer Quatre gave me for my birthday in April, and I'm gonna use it to cook the mushrooms you bought yesterday. That'll go great with this steak!"

Duo crossed the living room to the kitchen, swinging the grocery sack as he went, his braid flicking the backs of his thighs. I watched his cute ass disappear past the door, and then said:

"Um --"

Duo immediately re-entered the living room. "I know, I know; the door, the door!" He closed the front door to the apartment and returned to the kitchen. As he did, I followed his lanky form across the room, admiring his fluid grace.

My expression didn't change at all -- the months and years of training with Dr. J taught me how to control even the smallest facial tics -- but once again I found myself wondering just how many pockets in how many coats Duo would find an extra bit of cash.

- - -

Neither of us had wanted the fame offered by government for ending the war. Duo, always resourceful, had figured a way to "access," as he put it, as much money as we'd ever need, but I talked him out of it. Even though I didn't hesitate to deal with the necessity of money when I was an agent in Operation Meteor, it's not in my nature to take money that's not mine. "It's not like they didn't offer it to us once" was Duo's lame attempt to convince me.

Those were turbulent times -- the end of the war. The United Earth Sphere Alliance crumbled and was replaced by the Earth Sphere Unified Nation; the Barton Foundation overthrew the government, and -- well, there's not much point in going over recent history here. The point for Duo and me is that we decided to go our own way, to leave the world stage, full of politics and intrigue, to the likes of our friend, Lena.

So Duo went to work for the Sweepers, collecting space garbage with Howard. Me? I decided to study engineering. It's not like I really needed the education; I've been working on Gundam mobile suits since -- well, since I was fourteen. But I need the degree to do what I want to do, which is -- what, exactly? I guess I'm still trying to figure that out. All I know is I love working with my hands, and the logic of machines. They never betray you, you know.

Perhaps I seem to be rambling, but there is a point to this: It's that, while we weren't poor, we certainly weren't rich. We lived on a budget, and sticking to it was supremely important, since Duo never knew when he'd be called. Contract work is, well, "variable" is a nice way to put it. When he was working steadily, we had more than enough to spare; when he was idle, we lived on what we had saved during the feast times. The day that Duo burst into the apartment with steak was at the end of a period of famine, though we didn't know it was near the end. So money was especially tight.

- - -

I stood, stretched, looked at my watch. 5:30 p.m. I had been studying for over three hours without a break, and my body needed to move.

"I'm going for a walk, okay? Be back in a few."

"Don't be late. This'll be ready in half an hour, and I don't want it to get cold."

"Right."

I ambled to the door, picked up my keys from the basket on the table; I checked my watch again and left the apartment.

Down one flight of stairs (we live in apartment 212), through the lobby, across the ancient floor tiled with grime-lined, alternating black-and-white hexagons, and out the front door of our building; I was welcomed by a blast of sultry, steamy air hitting me in the face. Changing seasons on earth are still a mystery to me. The L1 colony, like all of the space colonies, made weather regulation and control a priority. It's essential if you're going to live in an enclosed ecosystem. But Duo, impulsive as he is, fell in love with Earth's seasons. "You never know what you're going to get!" he would say, delighted at being caught in a sudden shower that I found maddening.

I plunged into the heat; immediately my shirt began to stick to my back. I shrugged, and found the sensation particularly unpleasant. "Damn humidity," I thought.

I rounded the corner of our block and headed toward Stivers Avenue. Stivers is the hub of the arts community in New Chicago, and there were plenty of coffee shops, galleries, and bookstores available. But I wasn't interested in any of them; I wanted a quiet place to clear my mind, so when I got to the corner of Stivers and Devon, I turned right and headed into the residential area.

Leaving the business district took me under leafy oaks, cottonwoods, and blue beech. Patches of strong sunlight shone through the leaves; the tepid breeze made even the shadows seem sluggish in the heat.

As I trod heavily past prairie-style homes (all Frank Lloyd Wright knockoffs, none the real thing), I saw animals: two cats languishing on a porch, a dog halfheartedly sniffing a flowerbed, a squirrel scratching her chin as though she couldn't decide what to do next. Two small boys sat next to stone slab steps leading to a wide porch, poking an anthill with a stick and playing at war.

/Playing at war, I thought. I had half a mind to stop and lecture them on the suffering and misery that their little game caused in real life, but no; I walked on, trying to get a handle on just what about Duo had changed.

I'm nor sure when it began; I only know that, one day, Duo was . . . different. His eyes had changed, maybe. He didn't look directly into mine as he once did. It was as though . . . as though he . . . wasn't . . . interested, or, as interested, as he once was in what my eyes had to offer, to share, with him. I guess that makes little sense, but it's the best I can do to try and define what happened. And, now that I think about it, it wasn't so much a happening as a . . . a . . . a very slow morphing of our relationship. Something made, or coaxed, Duo into -- what? A different way of looking at us? At our relationship?

I noticed a gnat dive-bombing my nose. I swatted it away and shook my head, mostly to clear it.

/These are crazy thoughts. I have no reason to doubt Duo. And yet . . ./ I knew that something indefinable was different.

A dog barking two streets over reminded me, somehow, that Duo wanted me home for that unexpected steak dinner. I looked at my watch and cursed under my breath. If I hurried, I'd be back at six, exactly thirty minutes after I left the apartment. I glanced at the street sign ahead, jogged toward it: Peron Avenue. If I turned here and cut across the Jordan's lawn, I'd just make it.

- - -

"You made it!"

Sizzling flank steak, pungent, hit my nostrils as I entered the apartment, the sheen of a light sweat on my forehead from my jog back.

"Smells great." I crossed to the kitchen, leaned on the doorframe.

"Yeah, doesn't it? And wait till you see what else I have!"

I raised one eyebrow in response, but Duo didn't see it. He was busily tossing salad, prodding mushrooms bubbling in that Australian beer, and checking on pan-seared beef.

"Got time for a little shower?"

"Sure, if you can make it quick. I'm five minutes away from plating this."

I pushed off of the doorframe with my shoulder and leaned in to kiss Duo on the cheek, but he shoulder-shrugged me away.

"Not now, Heero, I'm cooking."

I snorted softly, turned away.

"Hey, you'll get your kiss, don't worry."

- - -

I flexed my shoulders against the spray of hot water, and groaned. /I've got to be more regular with my exercise. Sitting with books all day is going to --/

A stray droplet of hot water found my eye; I blinked it away, frustrated that I couldn't wipe my eye with my finger because my hands were soapy. I shook my head, and more drops flew through the air.

/Why wouldn't he let me kiss him? It was never like that before./

I bent to soap my thighs.

Duo had always been the passionate one between us. No, strike that. Duo had always been the one who was willing to display his passion. I'm just as passionate, and maybe, even more so; but I have to maintain control. Without control . . .

/No. I'm not going to ruminate on myself./

What's wrong? What's different? I couldn't figure it out.

I was toweling off my feet, back to the door, legs straight and bent fully over at the waist, when it hit me. /I know what's wrong; he's distant because he doesn't feel the same about me anymore. What I \don't\ know is why./

"Well, now, that's one fine ass you got there, Mister Yuy."

Duo had quietly opened the bathroom door and was wiping his hands on a hand towel as he surveyed my backside with me fully bent over. I smirked and spread my legs, then poked my head between them, my ears at my ankles.

"Perv."

"You know it."

Upside-down Duo smiled and turned, speaking over his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen. "Get dressed; time to eat!"

I watched him slip out of sight around the corner, then straightened up; dropped the towel in the clothes hamper; reached for my khaki shorts and tee.

When we first moved in together, Duo couldn't keep his hands off me. Back then, presented with me bent over in the bathroom, he would have abandoned all thought of food and tried to mount me right there. We would have tussled, dragged each other to the bedroom, and made love.

Made love.

Perhaps that was it. We still had sex on a regular basis, but maybe that was all there was to it: sex, not love. But no; I couldn't say Duo didn't love me anymore.

/Damn it all, this is driving me insane./

- - -

"Smells good, Duo."

"Yeah, doesn't it?"

He smiled as he tossed the salad he had made into our bowls. The plates before us bore equal portions of the seared beef and mushrooms. I fingered my fork, unsure of how to proceed. I knew I had to confront Duo with my . . . my what? Suspicions? Suspicions of what? I was --

"So, get a lot of studying done?"

I blinked, shook my head, looked at him quickly. "What?"

Duo gently raised an eyebrow; one corner of his mouth crooked upward. "Um, I said, "Get a lot of studying done?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess. There's just so much to cover before the test tomorrow . . ."

"Well, you'll get it done. Besides, I don't know why you're worried. It's not like you don't know mechanical engineering already. And you've gotta be the most diligent student I've ever seen."

I nodded absently. "Hn."

"Don't 'Hn' me, mister. You'll do fine."

"I suppose."

"So, ready?"

"Yep."

Duo grabbed my hand and we both bowed our heads. He looked up and grinned. "Are we grateful?"

"Yep."

"Okay, then. Let's dig in."

He released my hand and rubbed both of his together. "I'm famished."

I picked up my knife and fork and cut a slice of steak. As I chewed around it, I said, "Why do we still do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pray."

Duo smiled as he popped a mushroom in his mouth. "Well, that really wasn't much of a prayer, was it?"

"That's my point, Duo. You don't really believe, do you? So --"

Duo sighed. "This again? Let's not ruin a good evening talking about religion again."

I persisted. "It's just that --" Duo cut me off again.

"Look, I'll tell you again. I don't know whether there's a god or not. I'm not an atheist, but I'm not a believer, either." Duo had the look of an exasperated schoolboy trying to explain Web4 to an adult who grew up without computers. "I pray because Sister Helen taught me to; I guess," he said, a bit more thoughtfully, "it's one of the few things like a tradition that I have." He paused. "Okay?"

I nodded.

"Look, Heero," he said, his tone softening, "I don't -- we don't -- have much in this life, not now, anyway, and I . . . I guess I need to hang on to this little ritual as sort of a -- a comfort, okay?" He looked to me for understanding. "Can we leave it at that?"

I hesitated. /Now or never./ I decided to go for it.

"You have me, don't you?"

Duo's face went from a gentle plea for understanding to anger in an instant.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I --"

"Are you saying I --"

Duo interrupted himself; abruptly stood, rattling the cutlery on the table.

"Enjoy your steak, Heero." He glared at me as he spoke, sarcasm dripping from his words. He turned and marched to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I sat still, staring at my plate, trying to decide what this meant, when the bedroom door opened. Duo marched back to the table and picked up his plate, knife, and fork.

"If you think I'm giving this up, you're mistaken." He tramped back to the bedroom, slamming the door again.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

JULY 4, A.C. 198

I banged through the door to the tiny apartment Heero and I shared, not caring that the door hit the wall. Heero looked up from his books, all spread over the kitchenette table in the living room corner. He cocked an eyebrow at me -- so like him. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was putting me down. I flashed my brightest smile and said,

"We're eating steak tonight, lover boy!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah! I found a special at Cavuto's -- a really nice cut, and if I treat it right, it's gonna melt like butter in your mouth." I proudly held up the Cavuto's bag to display the neatly wrapped package from the butcher showing through the see-through plastic. Heero smiled, but just barely.

"And where did you find the money? I thought we were --"

/Shit! Why can't I think before I open my mouth? All that planning and decisive action during the war, and in my private life, I screw up constantly!/ My smile drooped, and I looked away.

"Oh, um, I found a . . . a twenty in the inner pocket of my . . . my parka last night when I was going through the closet." /Damn! That's so lame!/

"And why were you going through the closet this time?"

I felt my face get hot; I knew I was blushing. /Nothing to it but to charge forward!/ I turned back to Heero and marshaled my strength to give him blinding smile number two.

"I think there's still a bottle of that Australian beer left, the stuff Quat gave me for my birthday in April. I'm gonna use it to cook the mushrooms you brought home yesterday. That'll go great with this steak!"

I walked to the kitchen, swinging the Cavuto's sack as I went. I knew I was walking a bit too fast, but I didn't care. I just wanted to get out from under Heero's glare. Okay, he probably wasn't glaring at me, just -- well, confused. I'm not sure what he was feeling at that time. He certainly didn't suspect -- well, I'm getting ahead of things. I don't know what Heero thought or knew. That's actually the point of everything, now that I think about it. I had no idea what was in my partner's head -- and he certainly didn't know what was in mine. If I had my way, he never would. But that's not something that was sustainable, and I was a fool to think it ever was.

I made it to the kitchen and set the meat on the counter and then exhaled, but softly, silently. /Okay, that's over. Now --/

I heard Heero from the next room: "Um --"

/Damnit! I bet I didn't close the door./ I gulped another breath and dashed into the living room, again moving too quickly. I tried to keep my voice light and airy.

"I know, I know; the door, the door!" I closed the door and returned to the kitchen. I stood at the sink for a few moments that were way tenser than they should have been, listening. I heard Heero turn a page in a book, and then I breathed out again. I slumped against the counter, my head hanging down between my shoulders.

/How much longer?/

- - -

I was still standing at the sink five minutes later when I heard Heero's chair scoot against the rug. He made that small grunting noise that accompanied him stretching his arms above his head. I realized I had done nothing whatsoever about dinner, and turned around quickly, scrambling in a cupboard for a pan to use for the steak. I needn't have worried, because Heero didn't come into the kitchen. He said from the living room,

"I'm going for a walk, okay? Be back in a few."

I made a point of clattering the pan in my hand in the sink; turned on the tap to wash the pan and create a larger impression that I was doing something. I tried to sound a bit distracted as I spoke.

"Don't be late. This'll be ready in half and hour, and I don't want it to get cold."

"Right."

I washed the pan until I heard the apartment door close, then cut the water. I held up the pan to let excess water drip from it, and reached for a dishtowel. I dried the pan, set it on the front eye of the stove, and pulled the towel through the door handle of the fridge.

I don't know why, but right then I froze as though stunned by a blow to the back of my head. I looked down to see that my hand was trembling. I gritted my teeth.

/Roy said this would be it. I can do this; I can get through it just one more time./

I glanced at the clock on the wall; it was already five thirty-six. Heero would be back soon, so I knew I'd better move if I was going to make this happen without him knowing and still get dinner ready. But I couldn't tear my eyes from the clock. It was one of those old-style American 1950s pieces that looks like Felix the Cat. The long black plastic tail and eyes moved side-to-side, eyes left, tail right, eyes right, tail left, in time with the ticking second hand. Felix seemed to be taunting me, perhaps even accusing me in that finger-wagging, condescending way mothers have with their naughty sons and daughters.

/Move!/

I forced myself to let go of the towel and walked resolutely to the bedroom. I closed the door and went to the chest of drawers. On top sat an old Kellogg's cereal bowl with the bright-colored rooster in the bottom and the words, "Top o' the Morning!" scrolled around him in cheery, scripty type. I used the bowl as a central station for my traveling valuables: watch, wallet, cell phone, the iPod Quatre gave me for Christmas two years ago, keys, loose change. I dipped into the bowl and fished out my cell and went to the bed. It was still fully light outside, but the blinds were shut. Thin strips of light seared the dim shadows on the duvet. I sat and watched the light cascade up my legs, almost to my waist.

I stared at my cell.

/Move, damnit! There's no time!/

I flipped open my phone and dialed a number I had memorized just three days ago.

"Roy? Duo."

"What? Yes, Roy, I know. I said I would, didn't I?"

"You don't have to worry about that. Everyone's been pleased, haven't they?"

"What?! I can't possibly be there early! It's hard enough to get out of the house by --"

"Yes, Roy, I know. It's not your concern how I manage it."

I sighed, not entirely for effect.

"Okay, okay! Don't get hostile! I'll be there by 11:30 tonight. I don't know how, but --"

"Yes, Roy, I'll bring it."

I pushed END and snapped my cell shut; dropped it on the bed.

I hung my head.

/You can afford to feel sorry for yourself after this is over, okay? You're still a soldier, and you're more on mission now than you ever were during the war. So MOVE!/

I snapped my head up. In the half-light of the bedroom, I narrowed my eyes and gritted my teeth.

I dropped my cell in the Kellogg's bowl on the way back to the kitchen.

- - -

"You made it!"

By the time Heero got back, I had flank steak sizzling in the pan. I was moving at top speed now to bring dinner together.

"Smells great." Heero was leaning on the kitchen doorframe.

"Yeah, doesn't it? And wait till you see what else I have!" /What the -- Why the hell did I say/ that?! /I \don't\ have anything else!/

I knew my face was going red again, but I tried to hide that by diving into the fridge for a bag of salad to toss. Heero didn't seem to notice my /faux pas, and, like him, just moved on to another topic.

"Got time for a little shower?"

"Sure, if you can make it quick. I'm five minutes away from plating this." I was actually ten minutes away, but I was too flustered to think straight. I turned from tossing salad to the stove, my back toward Heero, to stir the mushrooms bubbling in the beer.

Suddenly Heero was right there, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. He startled me, and I reacted poorly.

"Not now, Heero, I'm cooking."

He snorted softly, turned away.

"Hey, you'll get your kiss," I shouted after him lamely, "don't worry."

But he was gone.

- - -

While Heero showered I concentrated on finishing dinner prep. I checked the steak: it was searing nicely in the pan on top of the stove; the mushrooms were getting tender; and the salad was ready to go. I grabbed plates, flatware, and wine glasses and moved to the table to set it.

/Damn, Heero!/ He had left his books sprawled over the table, pens and legal pads mixed in. I put my dinnerware on one corner of the table and gathered up his books, careful to put pens or pads in the books to hold his place, then stacked them all on a chair to one side. I put out dinnerware, then went back to the kitchen for paper napkins and a potholder or two, then back to the table to place them.

/What am I going to tell Heero about the "what else" I have? I've got nothing./

I fretted my way back to the kitchen to do a final check on the food. I turned mushrooms and steak to low and sighed. I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath. I looked at the clock again; Felix said it was six-fifteen.

/I better go check on Heero./

As I moved to the bedroom, I tripped on nothing at the door, almost falling forward onto the bed. I realized I was still clutching the hand towel from the kitchen.

/Get a hold of yourself, mister!/

I listened at the bathroom door; no running water. He must be out. I pushed the door open quietly and saw Heero with his back to me, completely naked, bent at the waist with his legs straight. He was drying his feet.

Even in my agitated state, I couldn't resist a signature Maxwell comment.

"Well, now, that's one fine ass you got there, Mister Yuy." I wiped my hands on the towel and smirked.

Heero spread his legs a bit and put his head between them, his ears at his ankles.

"Perv."

I smiled. "You know it." I turned to leave, calling over my shoulder. "Get dressed; food's ready." I walked out of the bedroom and put the towel back on the fridge door handle, then went to fetch a bottle of wine for the meal.

/In the beginning, I'd have jumped him right there. But not now, not today, anyway. Not with what I have to --/

I shook my head. I've got to focus. /Calm down, Duo. Breathe, breathe. You can do this. After tonight, it will all be over./

- - -

"Smells good, Duo."

"Yeah, doesn't it?"

I smiled at Heero and put salad in the bowls before us. I had already cut the steak and divided the mushrooms. I knew Heero's logical side wouldn't forget about the comment I made about having something extra, so I figured I had to keep the conversation moving in order to keep him from remembering it.

"So, get a lot of studying done?"

Heero blinked, shook his head a tiny bit as though he hadn't been listening. Not like him at all.

"What?"

I raised one eyebrow, just a bit; let the beginning of a grin slide up one side of my mouth. "Um, I said, 'Get a lot of studying done?'"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess. There's just so much to cover before the test tomorrow . . ."

/Good. We're talking about something, at least./

"Well, you'll get it done. Besides, I don't know what you've got to worry about. It's not like you're not a top-notch engineer already. And you study harder than anyone I've ever seen."

Heero nodded. "Hn."

"Don't 'Hn' me, mister. You'll do fine."

"I suppose."

"So, ready?"

"Yep."

I grabbed Heero's hand and we both bowed our heads. I waited a couple of seconds, then looked up and grinned. "Are we grateful?"

"Yep."

"Okay, then. Let's dig in."

I let go of Heero's hand and rubbed my hands together. "I'm starving!"

As we began to eat, Heero said, "Why do we still do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pray."

/Not this again, Heero!/

I forced a smile and popped a mushroom into my mouth. "Well, that really wasn't much of a prayer, was it?"

"That's my point, Duo. You don't really believe, do you? So --"

I sighed. "This again? Look, Heero, let's not ruin a good dinner talking about religion again."

But he pressed on.

"It's just that --"

I cut him off. "Look, I'll tell you again. I don't know whether there's a god or not. I'm not an atheist, but I'm not a believer, either." Heero just blinked, his face impassive. I continued, stifling a sigh.

"I pray because Sister Helen taught me to." I paused. "I guess it's one of the few things like a tradition that I have. Okay?"

Heero nodded.

"Look, Heero," I said, my tone softer, "I don't -- we don't -- have much in this life, not now, anyway, and I . . . I guess I need to hang on to this little ritual as sort of a -- a comfort, okay? Can we leave it at that?"

Heero hesitated, then said quietly: "You have me, don't you?"

I exploded inside. My eyes narrowed, and I used that low, serious voice that meant death to whoever heard it back during the war. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I --"

"Are you saying that I --" I cut myself off, and stood abruptly, rattling the cutlery on the table. I used all the sarcasm I possessed and said, "Enjoy your steak, Heero." I turned and marched to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

/God almighty! How dare he? He has absolutely no idea what I'm doing for him -- for us --/

I was beside myself with anger. I paced back and forth, then remembered, somehow, that I was still hungry. Or that I could use the food cooling on the table to hurt my partner one more time. I yanked the bedroom door open, went back to the table, and grabbed my plate, the flatware, and my glass of wine.

"If you think I'm giving this up, you're mistaken." I tramped back to the bedroom and kicked the door shut.

I put the food down on the vanity, caught my face in the mirror as I did. My eyes were blazing, my face contorted in anger. Suddenly and without warning, a voice spoke from some saner part of myself.

/It's not his fault, you know. He's done nothing wrong./

I widened my eyes in disbelief at what I had done, and started to cry. I clapped my hand over my mouth and collapsed on the bed, my knees drawn up to my chin.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

DECEMBER 12, A.C. 199

I cannot stop staring at him. It is as if, by looking away, I will lose him again.

How many times have I lost him? How many found?

Have I found him again this time? For real?

- - -

Thunder rumbles quietly in the distance, riding the passing storm over the horizon. I stir, and think to put on tea.

In the kitchen Felix the Cat tells me it's three o'clock, and through the window I see the pale rays of the old sun glide between ragged clouds in a sky of eggshell and virgin grey.

I decide to open the window, and cold, moist air hits my face. The fresh breeze feels good on my skin, but I worry. /Should I put another comforter on him? This can't be good for him, the way he is now, but the apartment is so stuffy --/

The apartment is stuffy because Duo has been gone, I realize. I stand at the sink, kettle in one hand, the other on the windowsill, water gurgling into the drain. His wet cough moves me to action. I set the kettle in the sink and close the window, then realize I now have to dry the kettle off before turning on the gas. I fill it, wipe it, put it on and leave.

In the living room again I see that Duo has turned. Now he faces into the couch, arms crossed and folded against his chest, knees drawn up to elbows.

The fetal position.

/Well/ I think, /he deserves to cocoon for now. There will be time enough to --/

To what? Reacquaint? Rebuild? Re-grow, perhaps, what we once had?

/Not possible/ I say /sotto voce./ /We can plant a new seed, but what we had is gone./

As I think this, the kettle sings. In my heart, a glimmering hope sings faintly, too, also sotto voce, as I return to the kitchen and the tea.

- - -

JULY 4, A.C. 198

I sat stunned by Duo's performance. /What caused that? I knew what I \wanted\ to say might upset him, but all I said was, "You have me, don't you?" Why did that set him off?/

As I thought about this, the bedroom door opened again, and Duo marched back to the table, steadfastly not looking at me. He picked up his dinner, and, with a snide remark, returned to the bedroom.

I didn't move; couldn't shut my mouth.

Finally I stirred. /I should try to repair the damage./ I went to the bedroom. At the door, I put my hand on the knob, started to call his name, but stopped when I heard -- thought I heard -- a soft sob. Finally I called him.

"Duo?"

"Go away!"

I paused.

"Duo, listen, I -- I didn't mean to upset you. If we could just talk about --"

"I /said/ go AWAY!"

The last word was punctuated with the crash of his dinner plate against the door. I recoiled as though the plate had hit me in the face.

He had never acted like this before. Something was wrong, more wrong than anything had ever been before.

I noticed my heartbeat: faster, louder. My palms -- sweaty, even after my shower. I blinked rapidly a few times.

I looked down at my feet, thought furiously. Suddenly I looked up, right at the door, as if I could see Duo on the other side.

"I'm going out." I made sure I spoke loudly enough for Duo to hear me.

I turned and walked to my knapsack, sitting on the floor by my books. As I reached for my keys, I realized that Duo had neatly stacked my books and legal pads, had carefully marked my place in each text. The thought that he could be that considerate jarred against the reality of what he had just done. /Or is it what \I\ had just done?/

I shook my head quickly, just a turn to each side; sniffed, and there were the pungent odors of our dinner. I looked at the food Duo had prepared, then at the bedroom door. /He needs time./ I left the apartment, quietly shutting the door.

In the lobby, I looked back over my shoulder, up the stairs that led toward our apartment. /He...he'll be all right. He just needs some time alone, that's all./ I pushed through the door, into the heat.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

JULY 4, A.C. 198

My breathing was heavy, ragged. I didn't understand why I had done what I'd done. Don't you love him? /Of course I do!/ Then why --

"Duo?"

Heero was at the door, his voice quiet. Just hearing it rekindled my rage.

"Go AWAY!"

He said something else -- I don't know what -- and suddenly I sat up, grabbed my plate off the vanity and threw it at the door. The plate bounced off and clattered on the wood floor; the piece of steak made a gummy sound as it hit -- /like flesh./ I was frozen in position, like a golfer watching his ball hurtling from him, listening.

"I'm going out."

I narrowed my eyes, still frozen.

A rustling sound. /He's getting his keys./

The front door closed. /He's gone./

Two voices in my head, circling each other like boxers looking for an advantage:

I thought you said you loved him.

/I do!/

Then why do you push him away?

/Shut up!/

Why, Duo? Why?

/I said, shut UP!/

It's because you know he'd hate you if he knew what you were doing. That's why you're pushing him away. And if you keep it up, you're going to lose him.

/No!/

Yes, you will. And you know it, too.

/But I -- this is not who I am. It's just something I -- I have to do. And this will be the last time. Roy said so./

No, Duo, this is who you are. It's who you've always been.

/No.../

You know this about yourself.

/N-no.../

You're just fulfilling your destiny, living up to who you are. Or down, more like.

/Sh...ut u-up.../

I finally moved my arm, surprised at how stiff it was. I shifted on the bed to sit cross-legged, letting my hands fall into my lap. My eyes went to the plate on the floor and stuck there. My thoughts froze.

I don't know how long I sat in that moment, not thinking, not feeling, but finally I shook myself.

/Don't think; just do what you have to do./

I rose from the bed, went to the kitchen. Paper towels, wet them; trash can; bedroom. I watched my hands clean the door, the floor, put the food in the trash, gather the plate, carry all to the kitchen. I heard a snick, and, knowing I didn't want to see, turned anyway. Felix hung from the wall by his neck, his face bulging, contorted, cheeks purple, tongue lolling. His tail twitched spasmodically. His whole body shivered with each tick.

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

I stopped screaming when I had to breathe. I realized I was crouching, head between my knees, eyes squeezed shut. I gasped air, shuddered, looked up quickly. Plastic Felix ticked serenely as he always had, the benign Mighty Mouse smile of the 50s frozen under his mechanical eyes.

I stood, hand to chest, willing my heart to quiet.

/Just get dressed and get out of here before he comes back./

I walked to the bedroom, pulled my gym bag from the closet, began packing what I'd need that night.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

DECEMBER 12, A.C. 199

I smile as I take down mugs for tea. They're the ones we found at a flea market in River Forest on Mad Saturday. Each mug is a sculpture, a three-dee claymation face, lopsided, cartoonish.

"They're too silly," I had said.

"They're just what we need on days we're taking ourselves too seriously," Duo had replied.

And here they are.

I hope they make him smile, though I doubt a smile is within reach for him right now.

/Give him time./

Yes, time. Time is what we have now, and lots of it. It's on our side; perhaps the only thing going for us.

- - -

JULY 4, A.C. 198

The heat was more stifling than I recalled. The sun was still in the sky, but lower now-it was almost seven (how could so much have happened in less than an hour?)-but still, the humidity was cloying. I took breath, and remembered the steam from my shower.

/Why?/

I walked away from Stivers and Devon, toward the school, hands shoved in pockets.

Cars passed, lights changed; houses gave way to academic buildings: McPherson Hall, Buchanan School of Psychology. At Trevak Student Center I stopped to read the marquee in the courtyard outside the imitation Starbucks:

Stanley Kubrick's

A Clockwork Orange

July 4th, 7:30 p.m.

Hanson Theatre

Discussion afterward

/Why not? I've never seen it, and it's a classic./ I looked at my watch: seven-ten. /Hanson Theatre is in the Jordan Music building, and that's just three blocks away./ I decided this was a good way to cool my heels while Duo cooled his.

- - -

Short, thin, glasses; tousled, brown hair: "Hello! My name's Garrett Parker, and I'll be leading tonight's discussion. I'm sure everyone here has some thoughts about tonight's film, so who'd like to go first?"

A middle-aged woman with mousey brown hair raised her hand. "Hi, I'm Marge. You know, as many times as I've seen this film, I'm always struck by-"

I glanced at my watch. /Ten-thirty? This was a three-hour film?/ It felt like six.

I left Marge and her earnestness behind.

- - -

The night air was just as humid as the day's.

/Fuck you, Duo Maxwell./

I walked the twenty minutes back to the apartment.

/Will he be there?/

Lobby, stairs, door, key.

Dark.

Silent.

I stood in the doorway, looking into the front room.

/Fuck you, Duo Maxwell. Where the hell are you?/

It's like him to run.

"I run and hide, but I never lie. That's me in a nutshell."

I remember very clearly the day that Quatre told me when he had said that.

- - -

MAY 24, A.C. 198

"Have you seen him, Quatre?"

"Hang a minute -- be right there."

Quatre moved easily between the tables at Sambre's, glad-handing classmates, their parents as he worked toward the bar. A nod, and the bartender was at his side, ear bent down toward smiling lips. The man looked up and nodded once curtly. Quatre made his way back across the room to my table. I watched him dazzle girls, impress men used to disdaining subordinates with effortless grace.

"I could never do that," I said as he sat.

"Do what?" He was breathless, flushed from his run through the crowd.

"That," I said, and pointed. He looked over his shoulder and a dozen heads turned, full of smiles.

"What?"

"Never mind, Quatre." He smiled at the room, turned, shrugged.

"Oh. You wanted to know where Duo is."

I let my lips tighten. I looked down, back up.

"Oh, don't worry, Heero. Duo's like that. I'd have thought you would have discovered this by now. You two have been together for-"

"Since the war."

"Right." He paused. When he got no response, he said: "Well, my guess is that he's out back of the kitchen, staring at the moon and smoking."

My eyes flared, just barely. Quatre realized his mistake.

"Oh, Heero, I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"Apparently there's a lot I don't know about my partner."

Quatre's empathy chafed. In the silence, I lowered my head, then looked up at him.

"Look, Heero..."

"You don't owe me, Quatre. Either he'll decide to share himself with me one day, or he won't." /And like the hopeless romantic I am/ I thought, /I'll wait as long as it takes./

Quatre put his hand on mine, so gently. "During the war" -- his voice was soft -- "Duo came with me to the Maguanac Saharan base. We swung down from our Gundams bone tired, grateful for the respite. They knew me, but Duo had to introduce himself. You know how he did it?"

I glanced at Quatre, waited.

"He said, 'Duo Maxwell's the name. I may run and hide, but I never lie. That's me in a nutshell.' "

Unspoken hunches slid imperceptibly into place; a realization was quietly born.

I realized Quatre was waiting. "Well, Quatre, I guess there's more than one way to lie, isn't there?"

"Heero..."

I stood; smiled. "I'll find him. I always do." Bending to his face, I whispered in his ear: "Thanks, Quatre." My lips brushed his cheek as I straightened.

Later that night, Trowa told me Quatre had sat with his hand on that kiss for a full two minutes before another graduating classmate found him without company and whisked him into a cheery conversation.

- - -

JULY 4, A.C. 198

I knew he hadn't gone to bed, knew there wouldn't be a note.

/Damn it all, Duo, let me in. You don't have to carry --/

In the light from the hall a shadow on the table.

/He \did\ leave a note./

I saw that he had cleared the dishes. His note was the only thing on the table.

I crossed the room in an instant, snapped up the paper, squinted, trying to read it in the dark, then realized I should turn on the light.

/Calm down./

Even then I realized that something bigger than I wanted it to be was happening.

I returned to the door, closed it and flicked the light switch beside it. I stood there and read:

/This wasn't your fault. I'm

just super stressed right now.

I need time to think, so

I'm taking a couple of days.

Like I said, not your fault,

Heero. It's MY problem.

When I get back, we'll work

on US, put stuff I've caused

behind us, move forward.

I LOVE YOU

Duo/

I read the note three times without pause. /Stuff \he's\ caused? What's he mean by that?/

/And where has he gone?/

Nothing is more upsetting to me than seeing a problem and knowing there is nothing I can do to help. Nothing. And that's exactly what Duo had given me: a problem, and no way to help.

/I guess all I can do is wait for him to come back./

I walked slowly past the table, note in hand, turning off the light in the front room as I entered the bedroom. I took my time undressing, brushing my teeth. I was about to lay down on the bed, when an idea came to me.

I went to the closet, and -- yes -- there it was on the floor next to the clothesbasket: the worn, soft-as-down tee shirt he slept in. I picked it up, and smiled as it unfolded in my hand. /Three sizes too big for the both of us together./ I held the neck to my nose, closed my eyes, breathed.

/God, Duo, I miss you./

I carried the tee to the bed. I decided against turning down the sheets, but instead lay down on the spread, cuddling the tee against my chest.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

JULY 4, A.C. 198

I stared into my gym bag. /What am I missing?/ Couldn't figure it, but I knew I was leaving something out. It's not like I didn't have loads on my mind plus plenty of stress to distract me. I walked out of the bedroom, hoping something would jog my memory.

The remains of a failed dinner were still on the table. Rich lipids, now stale, drifted toward me. I wrinkled my nose and grimaced. /I should clean up./

I did.

Still not knowing what I was forgetting, I walked back to the bedroom.

I glanced at the clock on the vanity. /Ten-fifty. Heero's bound to be back soon, and.../ It hit me hard: Roy wanted me early, at eleven-thirty instead of midnight. And his place was a good half hour away if I rushed. /Saturday night; people will be out, there'll be traffic in the district --/ I made my decision, grabbed my bag, and hustled out of the apartment.

/Stupid, stupid idio --/ Halfway to the stairs, I stopped cold. /I gotta leave a note, I can't go without leaving him a note./ I hurried back to the apartment, fumbled with the keys, dropped my bag by the door. I found one of Heero's legal pads and a pen, and hurriedly scrawled a quick note.

I left it in the center of the table, with the pen lying beside it. /That'll have to do./ I bounded down the stairs and into the muggy night air.

I walked quickly past Heero's Harley, not daring to consider borrowing it. Even at the best of times Heero's finicky about his bike. After what happened that night, there was no way he'd forgive me for taking it.

Especially after what you said in your note.

I got to the corner and looked both ways, indecisive. I turned right, deciding on the subway. /I bet they don't run late this time of night -- especially on Saturdays./ I made good time to the entrance, skipping down the stairwell into dank florescence, the faint scent of something uric in the air.

Ticket, turnstile, rock on my heels at the yellow line. Once aboard, I checked to ensure I was headed the right way; looked at my watch: I'll make it. I breathed.

/Why did I write that I'd be gone for two days? I have nowhere to go, and I'm sure as hell not staying with Roy./ I pondered that.

/And it makes me sound like I'm way madder than I actually am./

Really?

/Shut up./

"Now approaching Wickham. Wickham is the next stop. Exit is to the right at Wickham."

/Who do they get to do that voice? Can't tell if it's male or female./

Something in my chest twinged.

I got off, bounded up stairs to street level, got my bearings. Sagging awnings in front of two- and three-story crumbling brick cast inky shadows amid over-exposed neon glare. I narrowed my eyes, searching. There: Ming's Mini-Mart. I headed toward it.

Ming's is situated near the end of the block, away from the main intersection. Busy, but not too. Makes for just the right amount of cover.

Inside, daylight florescence illuminated a little freeze-dried man behind a large, wall-to-wall glass booth stuffed with wire racks of chips, rolls of lotto tickets, boxes of candy bars and lip balm and Bic lighters. Behind him was a wall of cigarettes and sunglasses. There was barely enough room between the entrance and booth for a person to stand and the pitted wood counter which jutted from the booth at chest level. Ming looked from the four-inch black-and-white perched on the register through coke bottle lenses to size me up. I noticed the sparse, grey whorls of hair on his head were blowing back and forth, and suddenly the sound of his fan was very loud. His eyebrows rose above his glasses, and I came to life.

"Um, I'm here to --"

"Roy." Flat monotone from thin, wrinkled lips; deadpan eyes, weirdly distorted by the glasses.

"Uh, that's right, he sent for --"

"Wait."

He slipped off a high stool with surprising agility; disappeared through a door to the side. A moment later, a door in the left wall on my side opened. The tiny wisps of Ming's hair barely came to my chest, and I'm not that tall. He eyed me for a moment, raking my frame, gaze inscrutable.

"Come." He held the door for me.

I shuffled into hell.

I had been here twice before, but it still made the creeps crawl my spine. A dark, narrow corridor lined with bare cinderblock and graffiti; a doorknob set in a field of flaking paint at the far end.

I swallowed, turned to look at Ming, but he was already through the door to his side of the booth. I made my way to the end of the corridor, turned the knob, and plunged down shadowy stairs.

At the bottom, grit and puddles on concrete, and a right turn; a shorter hall; a Christmas-green glow from a bulb hanging naked to the top of another door.

/Green means go, so.../

I put my hand on the knob, turned it, then remembered that I was supposed to knock. I paused, my knuckles an inch away.

/What the hell's the rhythm? I can't --/

The door opened.

"You're late."

"Roy."

"Get in here."

Roy could have been Danny DeVito's older, uglier brother, except that he was too tall for the role, maybe half a head taller than Ming. That brought his oily, grey-yellow hair almost to my chin. Barrel-chested, like DeVito, enfolded in lipids custom-made from cheeseburgers and full-on lattes, his face was creased, pale, clean, but somehow still grimy. Rheumy eyes of green-grey above a hooked nose. His smile folded the bags under his eyes in half.

That night Roy was dressed to the nines -- or what passed for it in his book. Powder yellow suit, pants solid, jacket embellished by pairs of navy pinstripes two inches apart; navy silk tie with pairs of garish yellow pinstripes an inch apart above a canary yellow button-down; leather sneakers in mustard and maroon. The sea of yellow against his fish-belly skin made him look more than sickly. The whole effect was of an aging midget mobster tripped out on bad acid.

He leaned up toward me, and sickly sweet pheromones hit my nose. I thought of a third-rate blues album named /Butane Fumes and Bad Cologne/ by Big Rude Jake. I wanted to puke, but kept my face from moving.

He growled: "I told you eleven-thirty."

"I know. I tried to --"

He laughed, a wet, gargling sound. "Stow it, kid. I'm just jerking ya. It's just eleven thirty-five; yer fine." The smile; I looked away.

"Client's not here yet -- lucky for you. He's anxious, which is why I told ya to be here early, in case he showed ahead of time." Roy smacked his lips as though he had just gotten honey on them and was trying to clean them with his teeth and tongue -- a disgusting habit, seemingly unconscious. "You can go ahead and change."

"Um --"

"To the left, kid. He just wants ta watch -- for tonight." Roy's eyes raked my body, and I started to shiver. To mask the fact that I couldn't stifle the impulse, I dropped my gym bag and quickly squatted beside it. Roy snorted; I looked up into a big, leering grin, overshadowed by his nose grown enormous due to the perspective.

"You gonna change here? You think I wanna show or somethin'?"

I stood, head down. "N-no, I -- I just -- I --"

He laughed again, but the act morphed into a coughing fit. Angry at himself, he shouted. "Get yer ass in the room on th' \left!"\ He pulled back his foot as he spoke; I dodged it easily, but scurried, just the same, to the door. I turned the knob, then froze when I heard him speak. His voice, gravelly at best, fell to a deep, abrasive rumble.

"Listen, Duo, I know tonight's yer last night, but . . . well, yer good, really good." I closed my eyes. "Could be great, if you'd jus' loosen up. We could pull major cash together. For real."

His attempt at sweet-talking me brought another wave of nausea fluttering up my chest.

"Well, it's somethin' ta think about, idn't it?"

I opened the door; took a step into --

"Hey, I almost forgot. Did you bring it?"

/Shit./

"I -- I d-didn't remember, Roy. I -- I'm sorry." I hung my head, my back to -- what was Roy to me then?

I waited, expecting an explosion. What I got was another low, phlegmy laugh, followed by that sickening "I'm being gentle with ya" voice.

"Figures. You've got shit for brains, kid, but lucky for you, I think about these things. I got some. Now get dressed. Time's gettin' close."

I took another step, another; closed the door. In the darkness, acrid smells, cloying heat, a claustrophobic sense of being in the bottom of a very tall cage.

/It's the last time. Roy said. I don't have to do this anymore after tonight./


	7. Chapter 7

DECEMBER 12, A.C. 199

I sit cross-legged in the chair, my own afghan spread across my lap. Mug of tea warms my hands.

I watch him sleep.

Every now and then he breathes deeply, sighs. Once he shudders at the end, just a little, the way you do after a really close call.

/Yes/ I think, /a close call. But he's here, now, he's back.

I have him back./

- - -

JULY 5, A.C. 198

I woke to thunder, soft, distant. I stretched, discovered every body part stiff. I was momentarily surprised to find myself on top of the duvet, still dressed, but then I felt Duo's tee against my chest. I rolled onto my back, stretched again, groaned; got up.

At the window, charcoal grey clouds scudded along a parchment yellow sky, and I knew the storm would be bad that day.

I looked down at the window sill, studied paint flakes, dust, a dead gnat, a fly thrumming between glass and screen.

Suddenly I sighed; realized I was still holding Duo's tee.

I put it over my shoulder, turned my head slowly left-right, yawned.

- - -

In the kitchen, Folgers went in the French press from Trowa and Quatre last Christmas, Sweet 'n' Low in a flea market WXBR mug (chipped). Toast; apple jelly.

I sat on the couch, cross-legged, a saucer balanced on one knee, facing the dark television. I couldn't turn it on. It would have made the morning seem normal, and I didn't want that.

/Where are you, Duo?/

I watched a bubble on the coffee's surface pop, and realized I had been staring without eating. Took a sip; cold.

/Where are you, Duo?

Where are you?/


	8. Chapter 8

JULY 4, A.C. 198

I stood in the darkness, dreading the light. Turning it on meant having to move forward. I relished one last moment of peace, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

/Do it. Get it over with./

Light, on.

The room was square, almost a perfect cube, in fact. In the center, a bed, lavishly dressed in black and crimson silk sheets and pillows, took up almost all the floor space; to one side, a small night stand, and a chair holding a brown paper grocery sack. On the other side, a closet, and from the domed light fixture over the bed, a microphone hung. It had been rigged to a pulley in the ceiling, so that it extended or retracted the way pneumatic tools hanging from the ceiling in a mechanic's garage did. Nothing on the walls, which were painted light grey.

But one wall was different. The wall facing the bed was an edge-to-edge, floor-to-ceiling mirror.

A one-way mirror.

I sighed; dropped my gym bag to the floor and began shedding my clothes.

/Not much time left. I'll have to hurry./

Normally I'd take the time to fold my shirt, at least, so it wouldn't be wrinkled when I was finished, but I was in a hurry that night. /It's just a tee-shirt, anyway./ My tee, jeans, socks, and underwear all went in the bag, which I shoved under the bed. Sneakers followed.

I looked in the mirror, examining my body for any blemishes. Satisfied, I turned to the chair, took the grocery sack, and emptied the contents on the bed.

An electric-blue t-bar, a fishnet body stocking with the crotch out, and a break-away Nazi colonel's uniform, complete with riding crop and knee-high black boots.

/Who the hell wants all this? Client must be rich, to afford such a costume./

From the other side of the door, I heard voices.

/Damn. I've got to hurry./

I stepped into the t-bar, slipped it up my thighs. The crotch fit, but the thong in back was tight. /Won't be on for long, anyway./

Getting the fishnet on took a bit of work, because it was wide fishnet, and so climbing into it was tricky. Then I quickly stepped into the pants and shirt, fastened the velcro (I hate these break-away outfits, they're so cheaply made), then slipped the boots on. /Fur-lined. This client's going all out./ I was just putting on the cap and giving myself the once-over when the naked bulb above the closet door began flashing on and off, casting lurid green shadows around the room.

I swallowed, steeled myself, and took my place on the chair, trying to look the part. At the last minute, I decided to cross my legs. I narrowed my eyes.

- - -

The green light went out; I heard the door on the other side of the mirror open, and Roy's voice, greasy, say:

"Oh, I'm sure you'll like him, mister --"

"Please, no names."

A chill ran through me, which I was able to stifle because I was sitting and had my legs crossed. His voice is what did it: weirdly modulated, like a serial killer on the phone with the police in a cheesy horror flick.

"Of course, sir, of course." /Roy's sickening when he grovels./

"He is ready?"

"Yes, sir. If you'll take your seat --"

I heard a chair being pulled across carpet.

"There's ice in the bucket, and glasses, and I got --"

"I can see that you made the preparations I requested."

"-- And I got the best vodka I could find on short notice."

There was a pause, a slight sniffing sound, followed by a soft electronic fizz. I looked up at the speaker hanging next to the green ready light, then quickly back at my eyes in the mirror.

I tried to look sterner.

"Grey Goose will do." A pause. "A few matters." Roy cleared his throat. "You promised me your best tonight, true?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I have him for the whole hour?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he will do anything I ask, correct?"

Even though I couldn't see through my side of the mirror, I could feel Roy stealing a look at me, glaring.

"Of course."

"Then you may go. Ah, wait. Turn off the light before you pull back the curtain."

"Sir."

There was the snick of the light switch, and the swoosh of the curtains being pulled back. I straightened my back, tried to look disdainful. The door on the other side opened, closed. Then that creepy, distorted voice, too deep, too slow, spoke:

"Good evening, my friend."

- - -

Note: I've posted all I've written, and have to find time to write more, hopefully soon. I apologize for leaving you hanging (it's really not intentional), and will get to it as soon as I can.

Thanks to all of you who are reading.


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